MV3G2
by Kimmae
Summary: The most ridiculous AU you may ever read. Shirley gives birth to a baby boy that is most obviously Chang's. But the baby isn't the only thing she brings into the world... All the zombie action you've ever hoped for in Community. WIP.
1. Chapter One

Author's note: I hereby disclaim property that NBC airs or Dan Harmon creates, or whatever.

_MV3G-2_

Chapter One

"You got a little... other side. Yeah."

Abed leaned in close to Britta and tapped his nostril while she invaded her own, trying to get the booger out that he had spotted. She took her finger away and leaned in closer to him. He eyeballed her and rubbed at his nostril again.

"Dammit," she muttered, shoving both fingers up her nose. She twisted and turned, withdrew, and leaned even closer to Abed. He tapped his nose.

Troy watched this unfold, all the while the two leaned closer and closer together as Britta continued to fail to get whatever it was out of her nose. Everyone else around the table was silent, checking their phones, save for Shirley. She was holding her baby while taking down notes on the YouTube video they had watched in Anthro...

"Wait, what're you doing here?" Troy said, pointing at baby Ben.

"It's a free country, jackass, you can't ask questions like that," Pierce quipped while fiddling with his Bluetooth.

"Have to get my studying in for Anthropology," Shirley muttered distractedly, rocking Ben with one hand and scribbling furiously with the other. She had given birth less than twenty-four hours ago.

"What studying for Anthropology? We're not even going to have a test."

Shirley stopped her writing and her rocking and eyed Troy suspiciously. "You for real?"

Troy looked at everyone else. They were staring at him like he was three different kinds of crazy. Abed was still leaning towards Britta, whom still had a finger stuffed up her nose.

"We don't have a test in Antrho. Would we?"

"Troy, what part of the word _finals_ doesn't grasp your attention?" Jeff said, his eyes never leaving his phone.

Troy gawked. "Duncan's giving us a final. Seriously."

"Today at two," Abed said, pointing at Jeff and adding salt to the wound. "Had to decide it last minute when the superintendent came in to check on Dean's job. Duncan handed in a copy of a test and declared it a few days ago. Multiple choice questions on all the videos we've watched."

"Are you serious?" Troy blurted.

"And he put in pop culture references for me. As bonus points. I asked for a lot of _Happy Days_. He almost didn't do it until I proved to him how it fit into the curriculum."

"Oh, no, no, no, _no, NO_!"

"I think you'll get the references, too. He put in all my question suggestions."

"And you thought I was a loafer," Jeff said sarcastically to Britta. She scoffed, finger still holstered in her nostril, and said something to the effect of Jeff slowly becoming a verbal geezer.

"I'm not ready for a test! How could there be a test? We didn't _do_ anything!"

"It's okay, don't worry," Annie said soothingly, "it turns out 101 isn't a prerequisite for 102, so even if you fail, we can still take the next class together!"

Troy slammed his fists on the table melodramatically and shot up out of his seat. As he paced behind Pierce, the study group seemed to be caught up in a murmur, like a hive full of bees, and Troy couldn't make out a word of what anyone was saying until he looked over.

Abed and Britta were making out. Annie was singing with an accent, while Shirley yelled into the face of her baby, which had frightfully morphed into Chang's head. Pierce was laughing hysterically as he chewed on his Bluetooth set.

"What in the hell—"

"Wanna play with me, Troy?" Jeff asked as he leaned over the table with a pool cue and hooked his bare leg over the edge.

Annie sang louder. "GIMMIE GIMMIE GIMMIE A MAN AFTER MIDNIGHT—"

_Take me through the shadows to the break of the day_

"Balls," Troy muttered, alarmed and awake. His clock radio was blaring ABBA in his ear. 7:48. he had slept through the first alarm, blissfully unaware he was running late.

As he threw back the covers and prepared to get up, he halted. _Do I have a test in Anthro? No. We did that already. Yesterday. Didn't we? No. Yes. I hope Pierce knows._

Troy stepped into his slippers and headed up from the basement to the main floor. Pierce's mansion was nothing short of huge, with two kitchens and at least six and a half bathrooms. From the basement lay the family room, or so it was called, which held enough entertainment units to put shame to the worth of Troy's degree. "Hey, Rosa, you seen Pierce around?"

"Señor Hawt is in the pool house," Rosa replied curtly, fluffing a throw pillow with distaste and scowling at Troy. She was an older lady, and her passive expression was scowlish enough to begin with, what with all her jowls and all. So to see her twist and snarl like that made Troy think that she was actually upset about something. But it didn't make him think to ask.

"Thanks," he said, slinking away past the mini maze and the Sacred Sauna on to the pool house.

On his way through the ground level bar, the sound of hammer on nails reached his ears. He frowned, trying to decipher a reason as to why he would be hearing those noises, when he walked into the pool room and saw Pierce nailing two by fours to the sun room windows.

"Where's Pedro?" Troy asked. Pedro was the caretaker of the grounds who usually did maintenance work; Pierce never did anything repair related.

"Fired him," Pierce said wistfully, standing up and shaking out his legs. "Hand me that board next to you."

"You _fired_ Pedro?" Troy exclaimed.

"Yeah. Is that other one still here?"

"Other what?"

"The Mexican, you dolt."

"You mean Rosa? She's cleaning the family room."

"Go in there and tell her I was serious when I fired her, too."

"Pierce, why the hell are you firing your staff?"

"Haven't you heard? The Mexicans are overrunning the State," Pierce said, matter-of-factually. "It's every man for himself out here."

Troy stood in silence for a full minute as Pierce finished nailing the board across the windows. He hoped the old man didn't plan on boarding up the whole pool room—otherwise he'd suffer a hernia before he covered two windows.

"Remember that diet we put you on?" Troy intoned. "That includes sayin' stuff like that. You can't study with us today."

"Study?" Pierce huffed, giving a dry laugh. "I'd get mugged before I even made it to campus. I'm not leaving this mansion."

"Wh—but we have finals!"

"So what? I've got a pretty hefty life insurance policy that I don't want cashed in yet. Now hand over that board, for God sakes."

Troy folded his arms and glared. "You been switching meds with Star-Burns again?"

"No! That stuff's laced. I go with the hack sack club now. Anyway—haven't you seen the news report this morning?"

"Er—no."

"It's on just about every channel. They said to board up the windows and stay indoors—those wetbacks are rampaging something fierce."

Troy opened his mouth to tell Pierce off again, but decided it was a lost cause, and that he should probably check the TV to see what this news report was all about. So he turned and left Pierce to his devices ("I asked you twice! You're with them, aren't you?"). Rosa was grumbling while organizing the magazines on the coffee table. Troy caught the word "Wasp" when he reached for one of the remote controls and turned on the fifty-inch TV mounted on the wall.

A sky view of the hospital was on screen. A reporter was droning on about something—headliners were scrolling across the bottom of the scene—and to make it busier yet, the S&P and Dow Jones were displayed along the side. Then Troy started to notice that something looked off about the hospital: it was blocked off from the streets, and plastic tarp was wrapped around parts of the building like a box in bubble wrap. The reporter's words slowly started to sink in as the helicopter slowly circled around the perimeter.

"...unknown origin. It is advised that if you come in contact with any individuals displaying these symptoms that you avoid physical contact and alert emergency services immediately. If you are bitten by an infected individual, isolate yourself from others immediately and contact authorities. It is strongly advised that you stay within your homes; do not leave unless absolutely necessary..."

"Rosa, you know what's going on?" Troy asked, eyes glued to the television.

"Sí, señor Hawt vale menos que un cerdo en una boda."

Troy lost her after "Hawt." "Okay, thanks, Rosa," he said weakly, turning back to the television. The reporter was on screen now, repeating the instructions. When the shot returned to the hospital, Troy jumped in the air, tossing the remote into the wall. It shattered, sending bits of plastic everywhere.

"Oh, chuparme la polla," Rosa groaned.

"Shirley," Troy muttered. It fully sunk in two seconds later—his eyes flew wide and his heart dropped through his bowels. He ran back to the pool house. "Pierce!"

* * *

><p>The first thing Annie heard in the morning was a chorus of screams, followed by a gun shot, and <em>then<em> her alarm. She sighed, crawled out of bed, and made sure all her bolts were set in place before crawling into the shower. She was groggier than a zombie until she remembered Shirley had had her baby boy the day before.

It had been mostly exciting—somewhat frightening. The whole class had pitched in to help, though, which made it more inspiring. How often does a woman give birth in class, Annie thought with a laugh. And it had gone _fast_, too—according to Abed she had been dilating most of the day by that point, but for the baby to just... _pop_ out like that after an hour was surprising! Not to mention they dodged the exam bullet because of the fiasco—not that there had been an exam to dodge to begin with.

It had become a little awkward when baby Ben was finally born, though. Annie's reminiscent laughs turned into frowns and sighs of regret. Even though Andre committed himself to Shirley's baby, it was no less difficult to accept it as someone else's. Especially Chang's. "I mean, I'm pretty sure there's some unresolved childhood issues there," Annie had said to Abed the night of. "I know a lot about that. He seems pretty normal to me," Abed had replied. There was a bit of social tension in the room (Chang singing "We Are the Champions" certainly didn't help to dispel it) until the ambulance had come to pick up Shirley and her baby—Andre and Chang went with her to the hospital, and then there was a mixture of mourning and rejoice.

Originally they were all going to study for their other respective exams together, but after successfully delivering her first baby, Britta needed "Some cold, hard-ass drinks" in her system. So they went to Pierce's and got a little crazy.

"Hehe. Crazy..." Annie muttered to herself as she rinsed her hair. At one point during the night, Annie had reverted back to her drinking persona, Caroline Decker, and began talking with a slurred Southern accent.

As she turned off the shower, she could hear someone from outside shouting through a megaphone. She rolled her eyes and grunted. Lars, the owner of Dildopolis under her apartment, was probably trying to throw another Night Owl Deal, though it was odd he was doing it during the day. Once she finished getting ready in the bathroom and stepped back into her room, however, she heard him shouting obscenities through the megaphone, mostly running along the lines of calling the "pigs."

Another drug deal dupe. Scrap gone wrong. Russian Roulette tag. Annie had spent many a night coming up with witty names for these sour encounters, but what was more important was the character she built up whenever stuff got a little rumble-tumble in her neighbourhood. She knew Tae Kwon Do. She could swing a baseball bat so hard, it would put an all-star to shame. She knew how to _shoot_. She reared her head a few times in the past couple years—most notably during the paintball game. She was like Annie Oakley, _goddammit_.

Annie stepped up to the window and looked down onto the street. Lars was hollering away at a group of a dozen or so people, who were shuffling around him lethargically while he swung a coat rack wildly about. Annie narrowed her eyes, dropping the drape and moving to her dresser. She dressed quickly, got her school things together, then went to the closet. There was a dramatic pause before she swept the doors open; there, right in the middle of the floor, was her prized bat.

It felt light in her hands—maybe an ounce light on the end. Otherwise, it was a beautiful weapon, made for dealing all kinds of hurt. Which Annie was not afraid to deliver.

All bolts and chains were unlocked with deft movements; the moment the door was open, she swept through it with the wrath of a lover and nearly barrelled down the stairs before locking her door again. By the time she was at street level, Lars was trying to hold off a tall, beaky-looking guy with his coat rack.

"Hey! Big Bird!" Annie hollered, brandishing her bat. "Knock it off." _Knock. Hah! Pun!_

The scraggly guy didn't say anything, but diverted his attention from Lars to her. Lars spun around. "Annie!" was all he screamed, over and over. She ignored his hysteria.

"Back off, Iggy Pop!" she warned a second time.

The guy grunted and shuffled for her. Even before he came close enough to be a threat, Annie wailed, ran forward, and swung the bat into his knees. The guy tumbled to the ground, weakly working his limbs to try to get up, like a fallen, uncoordinated turtle. He wasn't even screaming in pain—doped up on something.

"Annie, Annie, Annie," Lars pleaded frantically.

"You should be good, right?" Annie said calmly, looking at the drowsy state of all the other hoodlums. She could recognize a drug addiction when she saw one—been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Not a problem for Lars to handle, at least.

"Annie, Annie—!"

"Gotta go, Lars, I've got a Poli Sci final. You should be able to hold them off until the cops get here, believe me—looks like they're on narcotics. It's like babysitting."

Lars huffed and blubbered a bit more, but Annie turned from him abruptly and headed down the back alley to her parking stall. There was a lone stoner leaning against the garbage bin across from her car, and as soon as she got close, he held out an arm and grunted.

"No change, sorry," she said distractedly, throwing her bat into the back and climbing into the driver's seat. What a start to the day. Poor Lars—he'd probably have to throw at least three Night Owl Deals in the next week just to make up for today's botch.

* * *

><p>Jeff woke up, did some chin ups and pull ups, showered, shaved, gelled his hair, then dressed in a pullover and a pair of Buffalo jeans. By the time he got his stuff together, got in the car, and drove within a block of the interstate, he remembered that he didn't need to be on campus that day—no exam for him.<p>

"Dammit," he growled, smacking his wheel. He turned the car around and decided he'd do some shopping out of the IKEA catalogue.


	2. Chapter Two

Author's note: I hereby disclaim property that NBC airs or Dan Harmon creates, or whatever.

Chapter Two

Britta was wearing the sunglasses she only ever wore when she was hungover—the ones that were so big they made her look like a mutated bug. She was also wearing the clothes from the night before; she had slept in late this morning, and didn't have time to shower, change, or do the Sudoku puzzle in the Greendale Limelight. In order to try and block out sound, she wore her giant Skull Candy headphones and played her iPod on low volume. People still bothered her, though. Is it not fair to assume that a person wearing sunglasses _and_ headphones wants to be left in peace? Apparently not in Greendale. In Greendale, bums grope at your limbs to try and get you to toss change. The dirty guy even tried to _bite_ her.

The grounds were oddly quiet as she crossed quad and headed for the Central Academic Building. Finals were in full swing, and people were crawling into their hermit caves to study for their exams rather than populate campus. Good. She was tired of dealing with people. They yelled too loud and were too damn happy all the time. She just wanted to sit down, go over her notes, write this silly Women's Studies test and crawl back to her bed. Oh, _Gawd_, but the group was going to be yappy.

When she slipped into the study room, she was both relieved and puzzled to find only Annie and Abed at the table. Of course, even being the only two at the table, they sat at their regular seats rather than next to one another.

"Where's everyone else at?" Britta slurred.

Abed launched into conversation, pointing at each seat as he referred to the individual. "I suspect Pierce made another pit stop at that bagel store with those raisin scones he likes, and Troy is stuck with him; Jeff doesn't have a test today; and Shirley's either at home or still in the hospital."

Britta looked at Annie. She shrugged. "I'm just going with what he says," she said.

"Though I do think something's up today. Intelligence has been outside my dorm for a week, but this morning the van was gone."

Britta's brow contracted. She slowly pulled off the sunglasses and winced in Abed's direction. "What's this about your smarts being outside?"

"Intelligence. CIA. They've been monitoring me lately."

"Why?"

"I think it might have something to do with torrenting of old sitcoms and unreleased films. I'm also a plausible threat to the nation."

Britta scoffed and sat down. "Okay, Osama, whatever you say."

Annie made a curious noise. "You know, things were weird when I left my apartment this morning, too. Well, weird as in 'more drugged up hooligans than normal' weird."

"Some guy tried to lick me for cash. I think," Britta added.

Abed perked up. "This sounds like something that would be in_ Ghostbusters._"

"Must be full moon," said Britta dismissively as she fished her notebook out of her bag. Annie opened her own textbook. Abed pulled out his phone and began texting.

After a minute of silence, Abed broke in with his monotone voice. "I also saw something on TV this morning about the hospital being under quarantine."

"What?" Annie and Britta blurted in a panic, resulting in the latter gently massaging her temples.

"Something about a viral outbre—oh, that makes more sense now."

Annie huffed. "Abed—"

His phone went off. "Ah, one sec," he said, holding up a finger. He nodded, slipped the mobile back in his pocket, and addressed Annie. "Pierce is trying to board up his mansion and Troy is trying to convince him to come to school to get us."

Annie gaped at Abed open mouthed. Britta attempted to open her eyes and focus on him. He looked between the two, trying to decipher their expressions; he must have decided it was confusion they experienced, for he added: "The report said not to leave our homes or come into contact with infected people."

"Infecte—what infection? Abed, what's going on?" Annie shouted, launching into hysterics.

Britta moaned. "Shhh..."

"It got out of the hospital I guess. People try to attack you when they're sick. They've blocked off major routes and shut down public services."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Annie hollered.

"I assumed it was a hoax when I found you sitting here. Plus, the reporter looked like Téa Leoni, so I thought it was a parody of _Deep Impact _or something."

"Oh my God, Lars... oh my _God_!"

"Annie... study time, indoor voices..." Britta slipped her ear phones back over her head.

Abed fished his phone out of his pocket again. "Pierce isn't coming. He thinks it's illegal immigrants. Or homosexuals."

"Aloha!" Craig cheered, gliding into the room with his arms outstretched. "Came to see how half of my favourite clique is doing this morning—oh, looks like someone's got a case of the Mondays!" He laughed while squeezing Britta's shoulder; she turned slowly and sneered at his hand like she wanted to bite it off.

His laughter died off and he discreetly took his hand back, mumbling something about it being Thursday. "Anyway, came to say that even though the flu is running wilder than Gary Busey, the exams will still be operating on schedule. If you feel ill at any point of exam week, our school nurse is on staff to assist you. Not that I have her credentials yet, but turns out we were violating code by not having a nurse, and she was the only applicant willing to work without overtime or vacation pay. I'll trust you all not to repeat that outside this room. Or in it."

Abed craned his neck up at the Dean. "Will you give us extension on our exams if we don't?"

"No."

"I'm recording this conversation."

"Yes, you can, you delightful little caramel," Craig muttered. "Okay! Good luck with your tests! Don't work yourself too hard!"

After Craig strode out of the room, Annie looked between her two friends questioningly. "It's just the flu? Then nothing serious has happened?"

"Dunno. That road block looked pretty real. By the way, how did you two get to school?" Abed asked.

"I took the trains," Britta groaned, slowly nestling her head into her folded arms.

Annie's eyes flared open like she was being accused of misdemeanour. "I took Clarkson all the way to Ford—I didn't go near the freeway."

"Huh. Weird. Weird weird weird."

"What?" Annie asked.

"Doomsday movies always start like this. Isolation. Despondency. Then degradation." He looked up at the corner of the ceiling, a pensive expression on his face. "I'll be right back."

"Abed!" Annie cried as he leapt up from his chair and raced out of the study room. Britta folded her arms over her head.

"Whaz he doing now?" Britta mumbled like she had marbles in her mouth.

Annie crossed her arms over her chest and sighed. "Probably... going to watch a movie so he can reference it. Britta, what do you think is going on?"

"I dunno. The end of days," she replied carelessly.

Annie quickly pulled out her cell and started to text Troy.

_Where are you?_

* * *

><p><em>Still fighting w Pierce. Call u when I win._

"Quit fiddling with that thing when you're talking to me!" Pierce hollered. "You're not putting this on Twitter, are you?"

"No, I'm talking to Annie. You know, your favourite in the group? The girl you're planning on leaving to the dogs right now?"

"Bunnies, not dogs—those are the Russians."

"_Pierce_!"

"What?"

"_The Mexicans are not invading Colorado._ Okay? There is a _viral outbreak_ from the hospital. We need to go get the others before they get sick, too!"

"What if they're already sick?" Pierce challenged, swaying his hammer for emphasis. "That news report said we shouldn't go out for loved ones. Or people we occasionally study with, for that matter."

"You said your bomb shelter houses _fifty people_," Troy reminded him.

"Not comfortably."

"Why don't you want to drive over there? Just to make sure they're safe?"

"Troy, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, my own father wasn't going to send for me in New York," Pierce said. "He said I'd likely die before I made it back home, and that I was better on my own. Now, this virus—hullabaloo—is a lot less dangerous than a bunch of missiles, and I can tell you that wherever that study group is, they're a lot better where they are."

For a moment, it looked as if Troy had actually taken Pierce seriously and considered his wisdom. But then he opened his mouth. "Your dad was a dick."

"Don't talk about my father that way! Yours is a layabout."

"Don't you bring my daddy in to this—"

"You started it! Besides, he kicked you out so he could live in comfort with that Brazilian escort of his. I'd at least have the decency to buy my kid a house."

"And he'd have the decency to come after me when shit hit the fan!"

"Well, if he does, where is he now? Aren't you worried about him?"

"Him and Yasmin are on vacation in Florida. The only people I gotta worry about right now are at that college."

"Who? Like your boyfriend?"

"He's my _bro_. Not boyfriend. We've been over this." Troy brandished his phone. "They're on campus _right now_. Why don't you want to go get them?"

"Because I've got sense. It's a lost cause out there. Why'd you want to sacrifice yourself for a few strangers when you're already in safety?"

"Because they're not strangers—they're our only _friends_."

"The friends who've kicked me out of the group about four and a half times?"

"Those ones. Yeah. You're not gonna leave them behind while you sit in your gold-plated bomb shelter just because you have daddy issues, are you?"

"It's not gold-plated, dummy. Titanium."

"Pierce."

"What?"

"We bring back our friends to the bomb shelter and show them that we were wrong for trying to kick you out. It's because you pull stuff like this that we do it in the first place."

Troy finally seemed to hit a nerve. Pierce made vague gestures and stared at his pile of two by fours. "I don't need to prove anything to anybody."

"You're seriously gonna make this about you right now?"

"Oh... screw you. Is Rosa still here?" he asked, waving in the general direction of the family room.

"Far as I know."

"Ask her to get my keys to the Lincoln. No, the Mercedes. Hatchback."

Troy smiled and turned to run back to the family room. "And tell her to collect my golf clubs! And my mother!"

On the way past the giant fish tank in the bar, he pulled out his cellphone and started texting Annie back.

_WIN. Is every1 ther?_

* * *

><p><em>Jeff, when are you getting to campus?<em>

Jeff's phone continued to buzz on the coffee table while he ran on his elliptical. He reluctantly stopped, scooped up his phone, and all but glowered at the screen. The last time Annie sent him a message, she had been quite inebriated and not all that self-aware. He considered reminding her what she sent him when he thought better of it.

_Not going. No test._

He put the phone down and went back to his machine. He never saw the phone read: _ERROR: Message not sent. Saved to drafts._

* * *

><p>"I can't get a hold of Shirley," Annie said, her voice quavering. "And Jeff's not repl—now I can't send any text messages!"<p>

Britta glared at Annie before slipping her sunglasses back on and tightening her arms around her head. Their tests were supposed to start in five minutes—Abed had not returned, and the two of them had suddenly been cut off from all contact with their friends. Britta found it hard to invest concern in the matter, however.

"How are you not hung over?" Britta asked bitterly.

"What?"

"Last night you drank more than a beluga whale. How come just my head's pounding?"

"Might have something to do with age," Annie ventured, returning back to her phone and scrolling through her menus desperately, as if to try and find the solution to lack of reception there.

"Hey—"

"Oooh—our tests are starting soon. I gotta go—I've _never_ missed a test and I can't miss one now. I'll keep my phone on, though, so if you hear anything from any of the others, _let me know_. Also, if you see Abed, tell me about that, too."

Annie torpedoed out of the study room, books wrapped tightly in her arms. She hoped everyone was all right. She was mostly worried about Shirley and her baby, if anyone; if what Abed had said about the hospital being shut off was true, then Shirley was likely to be right in the middle of the chaos. What if she got sick? Dean Pelton had said it was a flu outbreak, and Abed said it looked more serious than that. Abed tended to be a little off his rocker, but she could still trust him when it came to being honest. He wouldn't have said that unless he thought there was a serious problem. Right? Oh, God, she hoped there wasn't a serious problem. She still had two more tests left after this!

She sat down in Philosophy 110 and pulled out her two pens, whiteout, three HB pencils, Hello Kitty eraser, one pink and one purple sharpener, and a miniature of Charlie Brown—he was her good luck charm during exams.

"I'll ask you AAaall _nooow..._ to put away your books and turn OFF! Any electronics"—Annie put her phone to silent and tucked it between her knees—"so that we can start the E.X.M." Professor Whitwiky was a little on the bumbling side this morning; he tended to look like he was higher than heroin and too doped up to control his bladder (he did one time pee a little in his pants during class), but today he was so uncoordinated that he looked like he was headed two ways to Overdose.

He turned his whole body around and stared at the clock. The moment it struck nine, Annie grabbed at the first leaf to her exam booklet eagerly and made to tear it open—but halted when the professor did not give the go ahead. _Why isn't he letting us start? Why isn't he letting us start? Start the test! START THE TEEEEEEEEE—_

A full thirty seconds after the hour had struck, he twisted back to the class, accidentally knocking the coffee cup of his desk (and failing to notice). "You may begin," he shouted.

Annie tore open her book like it was on fire and started to read furiously. _Answer three of the five questions in short essay format—_got it_._ First question—easy. Second question—not so easy. Third question—not coherent. After reading over the options, Annie picked her topics and began devising notes for her essays. She was halfway through her last one when the professor sidled up to her desk.

"What you got there in your potent?" he said—or at least Annie thought he said—and he leaned over to grope at the phone between her knees. Annie gasped, tried to swat his hand away, and in the process let slip her phone to the ground—where it shattered. She all but wailed.

"You're tryin' to cheat me, aren't ya?" he hollered. His glasses slipped to the tip of his nose and his mop of grey-black hair fell into his eyes.

"No, sir, please, just listen," Annie begged. Her voice just covered up the sound of the groaning coming from down the hallway.

"I'ma have to ask you... ter go."

"No! Please!" Her heart started to flutter as she launched into a panic.

A man standing in the doorway grunted loudly, shuffling like a geriatric.

"Hey, man, now's not a gOO... d. Time," Whitwiky said, running his hand through his hair. The guy at the door groaned again and came forward; Annie thought he looked positively dead as he stepped under the fluorescent light. "I'm monitoooring an exam—"

The stranger toppled forward into the professor and outright _bit_ him. Annie gasped—a boy behind her swore—a woman at the back shrieked, but not as loudly as the instructor did.

"Christ, man, I said I don't got any right now! Geroff!"

Annie's mind clicked, and a silent dread knotted her stomach together. _Hospital under quarantine... People try to attack you when they're sick... The report said not to leave our homes or come into contact with infected people. _

The moment his realization donned on Annie, one girl at the front of the room abandoned her test and fled the room. "Hey," Whitwiky shouted, shoving off the stoner, "you can't leave before the first thirty minuuuuu..."

At first, Annie thought the professor was just slurring his words again, but then his voice dropped and his face went all slack. When he stumbled around to face the class with the other dope fiend, everyone registered that something was horribly wrong.

A chorus of screams went up; people grabbed their bags and fled out the back door of the room—all but Annie and Leonard. She looked back at him in a panic, as if expecting him to tell her what to do.

"Screw this, it's only an elective!" he said, picking up his backpack and huffing it out of the room.

"Pro—professor, don't come any closer," Annie half begged, half warned, as she rose up out of her seat and slowly stepped back. Both he and the biter were advancing on her. She was more afraid of getting an expulsion for attacking an instructor rather than being attacked. Her hands went up; she slid into position; her face contorted with anger. Her training was kicking in "Professor, I just want to write my test." _Oh... GOD, what if I can't finish the test _and_ I get expelled for this?_

Someone darted into the room—there was a flash of green behind the two men's heads, and loud, resounding _thunks_ rang out. Both of them toppled over like dead weights; the way they squirmed on the ground like toddlers who couldn't control their muscles looked oddly familiar to Annie—she had left twelve of them for Lars to fend off!

Annie pressed her fists to her mouth as she thought about the fate of the poor pawnshop dealer when she realized Abed was standing there. He was holding an empty booze bottle and wearing a gas mask over his face.

"Abed...?"

"A man walks into a bar with a giraffe," Abed began. Annie frowned when she realized he was talking with an English accent. "They each get pissed. The giraffe falls over. The man goes to leave, and the barman says, 'Oi, you can't leave that lyin' there!' And the man says, 'No, that's not a lion. That's a giraffe!"

Annie furrowed her brow and stared at Abed questionably. Her professor proceeded to get to his feet—Annie squeaked—and Abed struck him over the head again. The professor was knocked out cold; the other man was in no danger of getting up any time soon.

Abed pulled down his gas mask and stared at Annie expectantly. "Completely humourless."

Annie opened her mouth to retort, but nothing came to her.

"I need to hang out with people who watch more movies," Abed said normally. "Britta and I are fortifying my dorm room. Wanna come?"

Annie blinked. Her voice sounded like someone else's slipping past her throat. "Fortifying?"

"I have _28 Days Later_ in my room. You might wanna watch it while we work."


	3. Chapter Three

Author's note: I hereby disclaim property that NBC airs or Dan Harmon creates, or whatever.

Chapter Three

Jeff wasn't aware that the apocalypse was descending like a dust bowl over Greendale until he turned on the television before doing his burpies. Almost every channel was on stand-by, failed to connect to the satellite, or had a news broadcast on it. He stopped surfing when he came across CNN; Holly Thorn was reporting, her face more stiff than usual (she often alluded to her extensive Botox treatments in between reports) as she described the crisis at hand.

"Reports are claiming symptoms identical to the flu," she said, her bored drone carrying a tinge of uneasiness. "High fever accompanied with chills, delirium, involuntary convulsions, loss of gross motor skills, and heightened aggression are amongst the indicators of infection. If you experience these symptoms, isolate yourself immediately and call the Emergency Health Line toll-free at 1 888..."

"Christ," Jeff muttered as the scene cut to amateur footage filmed a block away from the downtown shopping centre not an hour before. Two policemen were trying to hold off a guy dressed in Armani (Jeff couldn't help but think: "Nice suit") while he tried to swipe at them.

"It is strongly recommended that you remain where you are; keep calm and do not attempt to confront infected or take loved ones to the hospital. We take you now to the origin of the outbreak: St. Joseph Hospital..."

For a few minutes, the information washed over Jeff's brain like water and oil before the core concept struck him.

The rabies-meets-mad cow didn't make much sense to him, and he didn't want to invest much thought into it. But he decided that the "Get the Hell Out of Dodge" idea was to be taken seriously. He went to his bedroom, packed a duffel bag with a few shirts and briefs, made sure he had at least one extra toothbrush and stick of Anthony Logistics deodorant, then swept his keys off the coffee table and slipped out the door.

He was in his car in record time; he jumped down the stairs five at a time and power walked across the garage. As he shoved the keys into the ignition and sparked the engine, he paused, hand hovering over the gear shift.

_Jeff, when are you getting to campus?_

The others would be waiting for him. It would be a dick move to leave them behind.

He threw the car into reverse, sped up the ramps and out of the garage, turning left to the freeway that would take him to the interstate.

It's not that he felt entirely guilt-free for bailing; he should have gone back for the group, should have been there to give one of his speeches and glue the others together—especially with an epidemic like this rampaging outside. But in the grand scheme of things, how important was the study group to him? They were friends from school. That's about as far as they got. Sure, they'd been through a lot together, but in the sense of classes and tests, not life and death. The closest anyone came to that category was his mom—who was in Seattle right now.

Get to Seattle, find mom, make sure she's safe. He didn't see all of the news report, but he got enough to assume that serious shit was going down in Greendale. How long would it take for shit to go down everywhere else? The faster he got out of the city, the better. The better...

The first one he heard was Shirley. "That's not nice." Britta would snap at him that he abandoned his friends when they needed him most. Abed would compare his actions to the fat guy in Jurassic Park who tried to steal dinosaur embryos and jump the island before the typhoon; Troy would remind Jeff that that guy was a straight-up douche and died for it. Pierce would comment that he wasn't even as low as that—he would have sent a message that he was hightailing it out of town first. And Annie... Annie would flutter her eyes like a Disney princess, distraught with disappointment.

"Disney eyes," Jeff muttered as he approached the on-ramp.

He slammed on his brakes—roadblock. At least a dozen cars parked in the flow lane beyond—trapped. Two policeman started to approach him and wave him forward—

Jeff threw the gearshift in reverse and sped backwards, his tires squealing and smoking. The police officers shouted and sprinted off after the car—one dropped to a knee and drew his gun; Jeff only caught a glimpse before looking over his shoulder to see a car creeping up his rear—

He tried to swerve out of the way, but his front tire popped with a deafening _bang _and he veered right back into the other car's path. Jeff screamed—

His airbag went off and struck him so hard in the face that he saw stars behind his eyes. He must have been out for a few seconds; the bag had already been half deflated. He blinked and shook his head to get his bearings back, then heard the driver of the car behind him swearing up a storm and the cop tapping on the window next to him. So much for blowing town.

His mental study group made comments about Karma being bitchy—or something along those lines.

* * *

><p>Pierce was crawling along the road at five miles per hour. The street was surprisingly empty but for a few staggering people—people who Troy was certain were sick. "Don't let them get too close to the car," he said, watching them like they were sharks slowly circling them in the water.<p>

"Jesus," Pierce muttered. For a moment, Troy believed it was all finally sinking in to the old man. "This is what happens when you buy your drugs from Puerto Ricans."

"Every time you open your mouth I get more and more surprised that you let Rosa stay in your bomb shelter."

"Why? I'm not an... inhumanitarian."

Troy sat in the back seat of Pierce's smallest, least expensive car, flanked by the billionaire's ten thousand dollar golf club collection and the lava lamp which was claimed to house the spiritual remnants of his mother. Señor Hawthorne had instructed his last remaining caretaker to wait in the bomb shelter until he brought back his guests (and to have sandwiches ready for when they all got back) while he took with him his "most prized possessions" just in case he did not return.

"You make a puppy murderer look like a role model," Troy said.

"Hey—you—I'll—I will _turn _this car around if you don't start being nice to me!"

"Okay, okay, sorry—hey, watch out for that guy!"

Pierce gently braked and turned the car to the right, slowly dodging a straggler. He reached out for the car and stumbled with nothing to lean on. Troy looked over his shoulder to stare. "What the hell kind of flu outbreak is this?"

"The pill-induced kind. I've been there. Streets ahead."

Troy pinched the bridge of his nose. After ten minutes of silence (Pierce muttering to himself every time he had to make a wide bank around another dope fiend), he leaned forward over the front seats to turn on the radio. All the stations were full of snow. Pierce turned on the service road that led to the on-ramp for the freeway.

"Hey, why aren't you taking Ford?"

"Because it'd take us longer to get to school."

"But the freeway is probably plugged up with people getting out of the city. Or military. Or both!"

"Troy, I know what I'm doing here, let the old man drive."

"I've seen enough zombie movies to know... zombie movies..." Troy's brow furrowed before his eyes bulged.

"JESUS MURPHY JONES!"

A car was speeding backwards towards them, tires squealing and smoking as it torpedoed backwards. Both men screamed incoherently, Troy trying to tell Pierce to dodge. The car ahead of them went one way—Troy shot forward to yank the wheel in the opposite direction. But before they were clear, a loud _POP_ burst in their eardrums and the speeding car snaked sideways and struck them on the passenger side. Troy, having not worn a seat belt, was flung sideways into the door, his head cracking the window. The lava lamp went flying about the cab and Pierce's airbags exploded upon him from all directions.

Troy came to shortly afterwards—seconds, minutes, not sure—but he knew it was short because nothing had changed; the windows were cracked like spider webs and the air bags were half deflated. Someone was tugging on the door he was leaning on.

Things felt slow. His brain felt like it was two seconds behind the rest of him as if a lagged audio track on a TV show. Like a lake full of syrup. Cue laughter. He giggled then blinked unevenly and looked to the window, squinting to try and focus on the guy on the other side of the door.

When the door finally jerked open, Troy fell halfway out of it, limbs dangling down the sides. He clumsily straightened himself and stared up at the man, who was muttering gibberish. The words floated in like a reverse-echo over a valley.

"...peat, three males, one in minor condition, can Emergency dispatch be spared, over."

There was a pause where Troy took the opportunity to try and focus. He squinted harder. A man in a blue uniform was staring back down at him, something held close to his mouth.

A fuzzy radio signal cut in. "What kind of minor condition?"

"Head injury. Possible concussion."

"Negative. Treat him to the best of your abilities."

The police officer lowered the radio and lifted a hand. "How many fingers am I holding up, buddy?"

Troy giggled again, already cuing the laugh track before he delivered. "I don't know. That's not my job. Too many to tell."

"Okay, okay, let's get you laid out on the road here," the officer said, grabbing him under his armpits and sliding him over the golf clubs and out of the car. Abed would have appreciated the reference. Especially in a disoriented state such as Troy's.

The sky was overcast, but the sun still bright; Troy squinted and groggily draped a forearm over his eyes. He could hear Pierce's voice ranting and raving but it sounded far-off. "Just hang tough. We'll be getting you into quarantine before you know it."

"What?"

"There'll be doctors galore up there."

"Up?"

The officer's radio rasped at him and he tended to it. "Stretcher's on its way," the radio said.

"Just gonna take you up onto the freeway." The officer stood and left him.

Quarantine up the freeway. Zombie movies. Troy knew they were screwed. Wait until Abed hears about this... Abed!

Troy sat up abruptly and black and red stars sparked behind his eyes. His world teetered around him, and he hit the road again before he realized he'd tipped over. Before he slipped to sleep, he swore he heard someone calling his name. Not Pierce—the voice was younger, harsher. It sounded like... Jeff?


End file.
